This is from Maria’s Perspective
Just as I was about to leave, having handed my car keys over to Derrick, I noticed a peculiar expression on his face. It seemed he had something on his mind, something he was hesitating to share. However, my mind was too preoccupied with the thoughts of my girls to give it much attention. I still had a decently long walk ahead of me.
“Derrick,” I said, “I really need to go. I need to make sure my girls are okay.” But just as I turned to exit, his voice stopped me.
“Maria, wait,” he said, his tone indicating it was something serious. I paused, turning back to look at him. He motioned for me to follow him, an unreadable expression on his face. It was like his eyes were on autopilot. The sounds of the children playing in the living room became fainter as we left the main house and headed toward the backyard.
Derrick lived in the guest house, a quaint little structure bigger than my 3 bedroom apartment, set a little ways away from the main building. We approached the door, a modern one fitted with an electronic lock. But, the fingerprint scanner was rendered useless due to the power outage. Derrick jiggled the handle a few times, then with a sigh, he backed up a few steps and motioned me to do the same. With a grunt, he kicked at the door, the lock finally yielding with a sound of protest.
We stepped into the dimly lit space, the faded daylight filtering through the blinds and casting long shadows around us. “Derick, what can I do for you. I really am in a hurry to get home.”
Derrick turned to me, his expression serious. “I know, Maria, and I respect your rush. But I can’t let you head out there unarmed and unescorted. Just wait here for a second,” he said, disappearing into the next room.
My heart stuttered in my chest. Carrying a firearm was illegal in the state without a license. I had one, technically, from when my husband insisted I get one. Yet, carrying a weapon that wasn’t registered in my name was entirely different.
“Derrick,” I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the vacant bachelor space, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable taking your gun.”
His reply came muffled from the other room, “Don’t worry about it, Maria. Just bring it back when you can, and you’ll be fine.”
As he walked back into the room, he continued his argument, “Think about it this way - if you have it and don’t need it, it’s just an extra pound of weight you carried. But if you need it and don’t have it...” He trailed off, his gaze going distant and dark for a moment.
Then, as if shaking off some invisible burden, his eyes flicked back to me, the jovial glint returning as he handed me a revolver and a box of bullets. He smiled, albeit a bit forced, and asked, “Do you know how to use this?”
A moment of hesitation passed over me. But Derrick wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t a question of legality anymore. It was about safety, about reaching my girls. Resolving, I took the revolver and box of bullets from him. I set the box down on a table next to the door and quickly flipped open the drum of the revolver. I loaded the five rounds into the chambers with a mechanical precision I hadn’t realized I’d kept.
A pang of nostalgia hit me as I remembered the countless times I’d accompanied my husband to the shooting range. I used to go with him each time he needed to qualify for his police job. I’d shoot alongside him, an act of solidarity and encouragement.
Derrick watched, an impressed whistle escaping his lips. “Yep, you definitely know how to use it.”
I closed the box of bullets and offered it back to him. He shook his head, pushing my hand away gently. “Keep it, Maria. I have... more. And remember, stay safe. I’m not sure what’s going on out there, but there’s no communication with no power. And no communication means no help from the authorities.”
I nodded, processing his words. I slid the gun and the box of bullets into my bag, securing them amidst the other items I was bringing. “Thank you, Derrick. I’ll bring it back when all this is over,” I promised.
His gaze was serious as he nodded, “Don’t worry about it.”
Without another word, I turned and left the guest house and walked with fake confidence and bravado toward the street.
It took me a few minutes to navigate the winding paths of the community and make it to the main gate. It was eerily quiet, and the silence was unsettling. The absence of the usual bustling activity made my steps sound louder than they were, each step echoing ominously in the stillness.
As I walked, an unexpected memory surfaced in my mind. I was taken back to my teenage years when I visited a bigger town with my Uncle Luis. This was on the same trips to see Abuela, but those trips to the bigger city weren’t just about shopping or sightseeing; they served as lessons in survival.
Uncle Luis was a stern, retired military officer who believed in preparedness and resilience. He would use our trips to teach me invaluable life lessons. He’d tell me, “Maria, the world can be a dangerous place, and the best weapon you have is your angry face. You use it as a shield against those who want you harm. Just know how to turn it off to not turn out like your Aunties.”
He taught me how to walk with purpose, to project an air of confidence that made me seem less vulnerable. He trained me to carry myself in a way suggesting I was more trouble than worth. That deterrence, he insisted, was often enough to dissuade potential threats.
Shaking off the memory, I focused on putting Uncle Luis’s lessons into practice. I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and quickened my pace, projecting an image of confidence and determination as I moved closer to the community’s exit.
As I approached the main gate, a sense of unease washed over me. There was usually a guard present and alert at all hours. Right now, they were gone. The booth was empty. Perhaps he had left for a break, and his replacement hadn’t shown up yet.
I waited near the gate for a while, expecting someone to show up to log my exit, but the minutes ticked by with no sign of anyone. With a final glance at the abandoned booth, I headed toward the surface streets leading to my house. My route was parallel to the highway, a less traveled path I hoped would be safer.
I got about half a block down the road when suddenly, I heard yelling behind me. My instincts screamed at me to run, but Uncle Luis’s words echoed in my mind. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t change my pace. I kept my demeanor calm and composed, my steps steady and purposeful.
The shouting eventually ceased, and as I rounded a corner, I risked a glance back. A group of people had just entered the gated community. They didn’t look like residents; their demeanor was off, and their expressions were tense.
I felt worried for Allens and Derrick. I prayed silently for their safety and pushed on. I wouldn’t help, and my kids still needed me.
About a mile into my journey, I passed by a familiar strip mall I would stop by sometimes. I tripped over myself, shocked by the sight before me. The local shops were being openly pillaged, the calm of the morning shattered by the cacophony of breaking glass.
It was shocking. No one was trying to stop them, and no store owners or employees were anywhere in sight. I could see no law enforcement presence either. It was as if the world had tipped into anarchy while I was sleeping in the gated community.
Instinctively, my hand dipped into my bag, my fingers curling around the cold grip of the revolver Derrick had given me. The weight in my grasp was oddly reassuring, reminding me that I wasn’t defenseless. This feeling kept my steps bold and confident.
I cast a casual glance around, not breaking my stride. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself. Fortunately, the people focused on the looting and barely registered my presence as I walked by. They were too busy tearing into the stores. It’s like people were only not doing this regularly because they were afraid of the consequences of law enforcement.
Once I was a safe distance away from the chaos of the strip mall, I allowed my shoulders to relax slightly. The immediate danger had passed, but the adrenaline still coursed through my veins. Suddenly, a sharp pain ripped through my forearm and wrist. I glanced down, surprised to find my knuckles white from my death grip on the revolver. I loosened my grip, allowing my hand to fall back into my bag. The blood rushed into my pale hand, and I took a deep breath, willing the throbbing pain to subside.
About halfway through my journey, I encountered an unexpected sight. One of the major exits from the highway that connected to a major street was blocked. As I drew closer, I realized the obstruction was a massive pile-up. A few trucks and sedans were mangled into a horrific pile of twisted metal and shattered glass.
I felt my heart drop at the sight. I didn’t dare approach the wreckage. I had no desire to see if there were bodies, to face the possibility of people being hurt, possibly dying, and me being helpless to aid them.
So, I only did what I could – I prayed for the poor souls and hurried past the wreckage. I quickened my steps, the urgency to see my kids becoming more and more pressing. My thoughts were consumed with images of them, safe and sound, waiting for me at home. And I prayed that they were just that.
The familiar sights of my neighborhood came into view, providing me with a strange sense of relief and anxiety. On the verge of giving out, my legs found a second wind and kept me going. I took a few turns off the main street, my mind, and body on autopilot as I navigated the familiar paths and cut through the park I knew all too well. I was almost home.
But as I rounded the corner onto my home street, my heart seized. The entrance to our apartment complex was blocked by a group of men wielding baseball bats and pipes. I was frozen on the spot for a moment, my mind racing to process the situation. Instinctively, my hand returned to the revolver in my bag.
As I took a side step, ready to retreat, I noticed a familiar face among the crowd. My neighbor, Tomé. I exhaled a shaky breath, trying to calm my pounding heart. With newfound resolve, I slowly approached the group.
As I drew closer, they noticed me, and I could see their postures shift. The tension in the noon air was palpable, but their grips on the improvised weapons relaxed as they recognized me. But even as their hostility diminished, I didn’t let go of the gun in my bag.
I needed to be prepared for my children.
Just in case.